For the rest of us...

FRANK: And at the Festivus dinner, you gather your family around, and you tell them all the ways they have disappointed you over the past year.

KRAMER: Is there a tree?

FRANK: No. Instead, there's a pole. It requires not decoration. I find tinsel distracting.

KRAMER: Frank, this new holiday of yours is scratching me right where I itch.

FRANK: Let's do it then! Festivus is back! I'll get the pole out of the crawl space. (Turns to leave, meets up with Elaine)

ELAINE: Hello, Frank.

FRANK: Hello, woman.


It's Festivus times, boys and girls, and who else could handle it but the fine folks over at The Airing Of Grievances . Stop by and kill your workday on this rainy, chilly Thursdee of ours. There will be new grievances up all day.

And nobody is leaving until you pin me.

Labels: ,



Why, Cody, Why?

When debating who the worst baseball player of the last half century was, I have always said Cody McKay.

However, I usually follow it up with: "But, say what you will about Cody McKay... Sure he only had 19 total bases in 76 plate appearances in 2004, and it is true that for a catcher he had an unbelievably hard time actually catching a baseball, and maybe he broke the all time record for transferring ones profession from "Major League Baseball player" to "real estate agent", and, yes, his dad does have a ridiculous attraction to grab a mans ass with one hand, rub his shoulders with the other, and whisper gently, delicately, lovingly into their ear *, but, God damn it, there is no way in hell that motherfucker took steroids!"

Now, that saying is shot to hell. Will the fury light tapping of the wrist of the Mitchell Report know no ends?!?

Also named:

At least we know Taguchi was clean. Or do we?**

*That had to be really weird the first time Cody reached first base in the majors and his dad made it to first base with him.

** Yes. Yes we do.

[have a great weekend, folks. enjoy the pure, driven, midwestern snow.]

Labels: , ,



I Should Have Been Born in 1870

Via a link from The Sportsfrog, I cyber stumbled across a piece from 1898 up for auction at the Robert Edwards Auction House. It was issued by the National League and is entitled "Special Instructions To Players."

I'll let the REA blog describe it further:

"Reading this document started out very drab for a sentence or two, but then quickly got our attention as the language used became very unexpected for an official Major League baseball document, let alone one devoted to demanding players not use "any indecent or obscene word, sentence, or expression." It turned "blue," and, well, got "bluer."

This piece is ironic as it provides many examples of exactly the kind of "brutal language" that was being outlawed. In fact, it is so over the top that at first we thought it was some type of a joke. But as we examined the paper, found that this language did exist in the 1890s, considered that general rowdiness and the use of obscene language by players were big issues in baseball in this era, and noted that the accompanying items were all from the same era, we soon realized that that this was not a joke at all.

This was actually a fascinating and historically significant baseball document, distributed to National League players, that captures an aspect of professional baseball from the rough-and-tumble single-League 1890s era that is not well documented. Granted, in terms of language, it is also the most offensive official Major League baseball document that we have ever seen.

That makes it all the more amusing to us, but we also recognize that maybe this is a piece that isn't for the entire family. Truck drivers, yes, sailors, yes, ballplayers in the 1890s, obviously yes. But probably not everyone."

The entire document can be viewed here, with it broken down into two sections for easier foul language reading top and bottom.

The document begins with (and was apparently inspired by) the following anecdote:

"In a contest between two leading clubs during the championship season of 1897, the stands being crowded with patrons of the game, a gentleman occupying a seat in the front row near the players bench asked one of the visiting players who was going to pitch for them. The player made no reply. He then asked a second time. The gentleman, his wife who sat with him, and others of both sexes, within hearing distance, were outraged upon hearing the player reply in a loud, brutal tone, 'Oh, go fuck yourself.'"

That is fucking awesome.

Other outlawed phrases included: "You cock-sucking son of a bitch", "You prick eating bastard", "You cunt lapping dog," and a litany of others.

Just thought one or two other of my fellow baseball history dorks might find it interesting.

And, of course, I'd be remiss not to include a link to the most informative video on Olde Tyme Baseball ever produced.

(Also, if Rolen thought La Russa's letter was too rough, imagine if TLR would have said: "A dog must have fucked your mother when she made you." Olde Tymes sound awesome.)

[have a great winterly weekend, boys and girls. enjoy the x-mas parties and pugilistic exhibitions.]

Labels: ,



Al's Mexcellent Adventure: Days Eight Through Ten

After tonight's icing, my trip from two weeks ago feels like six months ago. And, truth be told, I don't remember that much anyway. So let us just say the following took place: We snorkled, partied it up on the beach, and Dennis Quaid caught a barracuda.

Then we left Mexico to arrive in our present cold hell.

The end.

Labels: ,


Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Days Six and Seven: Drunk Monday and Tulum Tuesday

Tito likes to drink.

Tito also likes to name things. These two passions first came together late in the Spring of '99, when our friends who left town for college returned after freshman year. About ten of us met up at Tito's house for a BBQ and a day drink. That day drink quickly grew out of hand and the next thing we knew it was seven o'clock and we had all run through personal 18 packs of Icehouse.

(Just typing that makes me want to puke.)

The day ended in all of us getting kicked out of a high school girls soccer game, Dennis Quiad going into work at Office Depot stinking drunk and dropping his pants in aisle five, and some lost hubcaps. And I'm willing to bet I passed out on Tito's porch.

That was on a Tuesday; or, as it came to be known: "Drunk Tuesday."

Fast forward to this year. I received the following e-mail from Tito on August 22nd:

"I say we have drunk Monday where we start with tequila shots at 10 and black out by 4. Then do it again starting at 8. Sorry for rambling, I am that excited."

Tito wanted a "Drunk Monday" and that's exactly what he got.

The families of both of The Wife and me, as well as a bunch of our friends, left on Monday morning to return home. Leaving Mexico always sucks, but it was rainy and (relatively) cold, helping out the leaving pains. Our group was down to ten, with Tito's parents set to arrive later in the day (they had passport issues. God damn democrats.)

We met up at noon and the beers started to flow like water. The next thing I know, there's a five-on-five battle of the sexes Catchphrase match going on (the girls would go onto win in three sets) and I was drunk. It was about five in the afternoon. Drunk Monday had come and gone and I spent the whole time drinking and missed it.

We met up for dinner, did some bartering on giant bottles of tequila, and headed off to see a hypnotist show. The hypnotist's (one Danny Doyle) show got off to a rough start when during the introduction the narrated voice-over said "Hypnotism has been around for a thousand years. No one know when it began." I turned to my cousin Jeremy and said "Sure we do. It was a thousand years ago. You just said that."

Danny Doyle succeeded in hypnotizing two out of twenty five people, but their spell (or whatever) wore off by the time his big finale came around and it failed miserably. Danny Doyle bombed.

Afterwards, Mr T showed up and we went snorkeling.*

Tuesday, we took a cab out to the Mayan ruins in Tulum and played around at the beach there. We stayed until around five, then cleaned up in the most disgusting bathroom ever and got yelled at for putting our feet in the sinks. We went into Tulum and enjoyed a whole meal of food and drinks at Charlie's.

The food was fantastic, as were the drinks, but what they poured us for shots would be what you or I here in the states would refer to as double shots. I took my first shot down, but struggled; it was really good tequila, I just can't do that big of a shot.

When it was time for our next round of bangers, I tried to ask the bartender to only pour me half of a "shot." He no comprendo. Dennis Quiad was working the town as our more fluent translator (he majored in Spanish at SMS), so I asked him to ask the bartender about my needs. Now, I may have only have taken two years of Spanish in high school, and, sure, I got Ds in both of those classes, but I'll be damned if Dennis Quaid didn't call me a pussy in Spanish. Pendejo.

The highlight of my trip to Charlie's was seeing this sign in the restroom:

In case you can't tell, it is requesting you to kindly throw your used toilet paper into the trash can, not to flush it. I had never done that before. So, even though I didn't really have to go, I squeezed one out and threw the leftovers into a trash can. When in Rome, as they say.

Later, we went back to the resort and I filled in on the bass during a Journey concert.**

*I have no idea what we did next, but that would have been awesome.

Labels: , ,



Al's Mexcellent Adventure, Days Four and Five: A Wedding and a Hangover

A day, Saturday, my wedding day, in pictures -- many thanks to Matt, Jaquie (who apparently doesn't like being referred to as a coked out lesbian on the internet; my bad, Jaq), and a perhaps bisexual Spaniard who followed us around for an hour, making us pose in very odd manors, until I was near punching him in the eye and he left us alone.

The Groom:

A really cool picture of Will in a ridiculous hat:

The dudes:

During the ceremony, Dennis Quaid watches a kite surfer:

Fists of victory:

The happy couple:

The wedding party:


(Then there was a dinner, which was the best seven course meal of my life, but apparently there are no pics of it. Whatevs.)

White people dancing:

Drinks, drinks, and more drinks:

From there the reception ended up getting a little too hot and was moved to the discotheque, where my faux cousin Jeremy and I did the world's worst teuila shot (I took it down, looked Jeremy straight in the eye, said "excuse me" and walked outside the front of the disco where I calmly yacked for the next three minutes. Everything got out, lunch, the seven course dinner, the mojitos, everything, all because of the hot bag of garbage they called a shot. I don't know how Jeremy kept his shot down, but he agreed that it very well could have been a shot of luck warm urine.) So, yes, I puked on my wedding night. All fucking class, this guy.

From there, there was a hostile takeover of the disco's ipod and twenty drunken idiots all standing in a circle, screaming Piano Man at each other. The Wife and I bounced soon after and went back to our room to consummate our marriage.

And by "consummate our marriage" I mean "eat club sandwiches and chicken fingers, drink Coronanitas, and pass out watching Arrested Development DVDs." Like I said, class all around.

Sunday: I was hungover. It was sunny. It was my sisters birthday. I was hungover. We had sushi and some Asian food. I was hungover.

That's really all I remember.

Up next: Drunk Monday and Tulum Tuesday

Labels: , , ,

This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?

"I'll be dead in the cold, cold ground before I recognize the state of Missouri."